A/N: Welcome, fans new and old! Newbies, your author note is at the end of the chapter, so feel free to skip ahead to the actual story.

Fans of my original Amazing Spider-Man story, yes, this chapter's publication means that it's hiatus will continue indefinitely. Ultimately (pun intended) I felt like this was the superior story, so I decided to pursue it. However, you will see elements of ASM in this story. Please give this a chance. You won't regret it.

Web of Spider-Man
#1: Growing Pains Part 1
"Self Portrait"

...

I want to talk about high school. Cliché, I know, but I've got to get some stuff off my chest.

I hate how in high school stories nowadays they're all played off the same way, like an 80s movie. Jocks rule the school and beat up nerds. Artists smoke pot in the parking lots. The teachers are jerks. Every single one's the same, and I'm sick of it. It's like no one's realized times have changed. This is the 21st century. Wake up. Nothing's that simple anymore.

Likewise, I know my high school experience doesn't speak for everyone. Certainly not yours. We probably live totally different lives. I don't know. You tell me.

Anyway, in my high school, power shifts all the time. During football season, the team and the cheerleaders keep a steady rule about 50% of the time. Basketball season's no different. Hell, I'd argue track and baseball do the same in the Spring. But the weeks of a play, it's the actors who are in control. That Saturday night, the lead goes out, gets hammered, and screws a guy or girl of his or her choice. When it's finals season, no one messes with the teachers. Rich kids rule whenever they're willing to throw a party. Sometimes the band geeks have a badass concert, and everyone bows to them for a while. Power's never definite. It's constantly fluctuating. That's why it's really pathetic when—after two and a half years of high school—you haven't even gotten it once.

Enter: me.

…

RING!

Down the hallways of Midtown High, students scrambled to get to class. Within a couple minutes, most had done so, leaving only a few stragglers behind. One such teen was crouched in front of his locker, which was placed on the bottom row near the floor. At a meek 5'6" and 115 lbs., the boy had the sort of compact build that made it possible for him to go unseen behind his locker door, intentionally or not. So, as he continued to fix a digital wristwatch, he went relatively unnoticed.

And then along came Flash.

The handsome boy was dark skinned and built like a linebacker, largely because he was in fact on the team, as evidenced by his "Midtown High Football" hoodie. Great genetics didn't hurt, of course.

Flash walked backwards down the hallway, finishing his punchline, "And he was like, 'Christ, that was pretty gay, wasn't it?'"

The jock's two friends glanced at one another, unsure how to respond.

Kong, a tubby lineman, spoke up, "You should really quit it with the homophobic jokes, man. It's not funny."

Meanwhile, Peter muttered a quiet, "Yes," as his watch began to tell time again. He'd fixed it.

"Give me a break. I'm not homophobic; I just—" Flash cut himself off when he accidentally kicked the open locker door, which smacked Peter's head and knocked off his black-rimmed glasses.

"Shit," the smaller teen groaned, touching the point of impact.

"Fuck. Sorry, Parker. Swear to God I didn't see you," Flash apologized, although Peter could tell he only half meant it. His friends were snickering behind him, and Flash had to bite his lip to keep from smirking.

"It's fine," Peter waved them off. The trio immediately hurried away, laughing when they thought he couldn't hear them.

Peter sighed and picked his glasses up off the ground. They were unscathed…this time. Maybe next time he wouldn't be so lucky.

"Idiot," Peter whispered, both to Flash and himself.

Silently bemoaning his genetics, Peter put on his watch, threw the appropriate textbooks into his backpack, stood up, and slung his bag over his shoulder. He looked to his left. Only a few more teens remained in the hallway, two of whom Peter knew. The handsome red-haired Harry Osborn leaned against a top locker with both hands, a pretty brunette caught intimately between them. The couple's faces were just inches apart as they whispered to one another. Both began to giggle. Peter wanted to vomit.

He cleared his throat. No response. Peter tried a gentle, "Harry." Again, nothing.

So, he spoke up, "Harry, c'mon. We've got English."

Harry looked over at him, hiding his annoyance behind a forced smile, "Yeah, Pete, just give me a sec."

He turned back to his girlfriend, Jessica. Peter waited another few moments, before checking his watch for the time. 8:04. They had one minute till class started.

"I'm just gonna go on ahead," Peter said, fully expecting Harry to ignore him.

However, the taller teen stopped talking, sighed, and then whispered to Jessica, "Sorry. I've gotta go."

"Don't worry about it. I need to get to class, too," Jessica assured him, as they both threw on their backpacks.

Harry kissed Jessica goodbye and then jogged after Peter, calling, "Yo! Wait up!"

Peter slowed down until Harry caught up, and then the two continued on their way to class.

"Sorry, man. You know how it is," Harry began, before Peter interrupted him.

"Actually, I don't. I've never had a girlfriend," he said.

Harry frowned. "Right. I just meant…never mind."

Silence. The brutal awkwardness lingered, until at last Harry managed, "Did you get my Snap last night?"

Peter couldn't help himself: he grinned. "The one with your dad?"

"Yeah," Harry happily replied, realizing he'd broken through Peter's cold outer shell.

The smaller boy laughed. "You're goddamn right he looks like Bryan Cranston."

Harry groaned teasingly, "That was so bad. You picked the lowest hanging fruit, Pete. Like, it was literally on the ground."

"Give me a break. On a scale of one to ten, I'm Will-freaking-Ferrell hilarious," Peter playfully shot back as the bell rung, but the two paid it no mind.

…

"Why did Hamlet act so irrationally throughout the play?" asked Mrs. Sophie Winterhalter, a relaxed woman in her early thirties, who sat on the edge of her desk as she addressed the class.

In a class of thirty-two students, no one bothered to raise their hand. Peter, who was seated near the back, looked around, but couldn't spot anyone who seemed willing.

"C'mon, your participation grades aren't going to raise themselves. Don't make me call on someone," Mrs. Winterhalter said.

Slowly, a timid hand rose amongst the crowd. Most of the students turned to face…Flash Thompson? The football star quickly put on a façade of confidence, although it was clear he was nervous.

Mrs. Winterhalter nodded at him. "Flash."

"His uncle killed his dad, so he kind of lost it," Flash answered.

Mrs. Winterhalter shrugged. "You're not wrong, but there's more to it than that. Anyone else?"

Face flushed, Flash sunk into his seat and glared around the room, daring anyone to complete his embarrassment. Peter was tempted, but instead he elected to slouch back and write in his notebook.

Finally, someone raised their hand. Hobie Brown, a black teen nearly as skinny as Peter, mustered the courage to answer.

"His uncle had also married his mother and become King of Denmark. Beyond that, Hamlet, as Shakespeare originally intended him, was just a teenager, so he didn't always think things through. He'd act like an impulsive idiot, hence no 'hakuna matata' mentality," Hobie said, drawing a couple chuckles from other students.

Peter looked down at his notebook where three bullet points were filled in:

1. Uncle killed father for throne.

2. Uncle married mom.

3. Hamlet's a teenager.

He smirked confidently.

"Exactly," Mrs. Winterhalter said, "Don't take it personally. I've been there, but Hamlet's just like any other teenager: his hormones can get in the way of rational thought."

Peter glanced at Flash, who was giving Hobie a death glare, not that the other teen noticed. He was going to get it later. It was a mistake to embarrass Flash Thompson. That's why Peter hadn't raised his hand. You couldn't flaunt your intelligence in high school if you wanted to be left alone.

…

After first period ended, Peter and Harry left the classroom near the back of the pack, saying goodbye to Mrs. Winterhalter, who responded in kind. On their way out, Peter noticed a break in the crowd of students trying to get to class. Further down the hallway, Flash had Hobie up against a locker. It didn't look like he'd hit him. Peter couldn't be sure he was going to, but one thing was clear: this was a warning. Don't mess with Flash Thompson.

Something deep and dark bubbled up inside Peter, and before he knew it, his legs had begun to move on their own toward Flash. Suddenly, a hand grabbed his shoulder, stopping him. He looked back, meeting Harry's gaze.

"Don't. You'll only make it worse for both of you," Harry said, indicating Hobie.

Peter hesitated for a few moments, then agreed with a nod. He began to lead Harry in the other direction, toward the math classrooms.

"Thanks. I'll see you after BC," Peter said.

"Have fun in nerd math," Harry teased, ready to split up, but before they could do so a voice stopped them in their tracks.

"Harry! Peter!" called Jessica Cambell.

Both turned amidst the crowd to face Jessica, drawing numerous glares from other students. However, Jessica didn't seem to notice or mind. She simply stood in the middle of the hallway, making others step aside to pass her.

"Shouldn't we move?" Peter wondered.

"Why?" she simply replied, before asking them, "Are you guys going to the activities fair later?"

A smirk suddenly overcame Harry's face, and he said, "We couldn't miss it even if I wanted to. Peter has to go. Gwen'll be there."

Peter elbowed Harry in the ribs, but his friend ignored him while Jessica exclaimed (far too loudly for Peter's taste), "You like Gwen?!"

"Keep it down," Peter demanded, before glaring at Harry, "And thanks, bud. You're a great friend."

"What? You can trust Jess," Harry argued.

"Yeah, don't worry about it. Your secret's safe with me," Jessica agreed.

Peter rolled his eyes, "Excuse me for being paranoid. Gwen's only one of your best friends, and you kinda just shouted out 'you like Gwen' for the whole world to hear."

"Okay, okay, I get it. I'm loud." Jessica playfully pushed Peter. She had already made a habit of doing that in the three weeks since they'd had their first real conversation after she started dating Harry. He wasn't sure how to feel about it yet.

"But you do like her, right?" Jessica continued.

Peter glanced around. The coast was relatively clear. He whispered back, "Yeah, just…" He lowered his hand in a universal sign for "keep it down."

Harry jumped in, "Peter took pictures for the yearbook club last year just so he could be around her."

"Ahh, that's cute. And a little stalker-ish," Jessica quipped.

"Thanks," Peter sarcastically replied, "But I didn't join just for her."

"Bullshit," Harry said.

"I'm telling you—"

"Who cares? It doesn't matter," Jessica chided. She looked at Peter, her tone suddenly quite sincere, "Peter, if you want someone to introduce the two of you, or, I don't know, help out…"

"Isn't she your friend? She's already dating Flash," Peter pointed out.

"Right, exactly, we're best friends, and I know—everyone knows, really—that Flash is an asshole. If I could set Gwen up with a nice guy like you, well…I'd be doing my job," Jessica explained.

Peter was genuinely touched. "I…thank you. That really means a lot. I just…I'm gonna have to pass for now."

Jessica looked deflated. "Really?"

"C'mon, Pete," Harry pushed.

"Yeah, I…I don't know. It's just not the right time," Peter mumbled.

Jessica reluctantly nodded. "Okay. Just…don't let life pass you by, Peter. Sometimes you have to fight for what you want. Sometimes that means embarrassing yourself, and sometimes that means you lose, but—but you just have to do it."

"I'm sorry; I just…anyway, thanks again," Peter said, feeling as guilty as he was sad. "I…need to get to class. See you guys later."

"Bye," Harry and Jessica said simultaneously, both disappointed as they watched him go.

…

The activities fair bustled with students who either advertised for their clubs and organizations or scanned over the dozens of tables in the quad for the right ones for them. Freshmen anxiously raced from station to station, signing up for far too many clubs. Most of the seniors either manned a table or simply lingered for the free food. Then you had the inbetweeners: sophomores, and juniors like Peter, Harry, and Jessica.

The trio moved quietly through the crowd until Peter spotted the yearbook club down the quad. More importantly, he spotted Gwen Stacy in all her glory. Her shoulder length blonde hair seemed to glow in the sunlight, and she was rocking a cute maroon sweater and jeans combo. Peter's cheeks reddened. What was going on? He hadn't even talked to her yet…not that he was planning on it.

"Ooh, baby, Peter's blushing. C'mon, kid. The sign up sheet's just down there…and so is Gwen," Harry added with a whisper, beginning to push him toward the table.

The red in Peter's cheeks was suddenly fueled by rage, not timidity. He forced Harry off of him, and then turned around to face his friend.

"Stop it," he said.

"Relax. I'm just teasing you," Harry chuckled, although he was clearly offended. Peter nearly put the whole thing behind him, but then Harry had to go and say, "Jesus. It's not like you joined the yearbook for her or anything."

Before Jessica could say anything to quell his anger, Peter blurted, "This may come as a surprise to you, Harry, but not everyone's so whipped that their entire life revolves around a girl."

As soon as he said it, he regretted it. Jessica bit her lip. Harry clenched his hands into fists.

"Christ! You can be such an asshole," he growled.

"Look in the mirror," Peter shot back, and before Harry could offer a retort he stormed off to the school newspaper's table, found the photographer sign-up sheet, and filled in his info.

He then turned back to glare at Harry, who was staring at him in disgust, when someone called his name.

"Peter…Parker? Right?"

Peter faced an older Indian boy, who stood behind the table, reading off the sign-up sheet. Handsome and confident, the senior waited for a response.

"Um, yeah, that's me," Peter replied.

The senior extended his hand. Peter shook it. "Nice to meet you. I'm Ned Leeds, the editor-in-chief of The Crier. Now, I don't know how familiar you are with the paper, but—"

"Last year it was ranked the sixth best high school publication in the country," Peter said, before adding, "Or—or that's just what I, um, read. I think."

"Yeah, no, you're absolutely right," Ned agreed. "But because of that, we really do our best to keep the quality high. So…we don't take just anyone. I'm gonna need you to submit a portfolio, and if the other editors and I like it you'll come on board as a staff photographer. As a warning, though, we only take three a year, and the rest end up as freelancers. It's a bit complicated, but I'll explain everything in detail in an email I'll send out tomorrow."

"OK, yeah…um, what do you want in the portfolio?" Peter asked.

Ned shook his head, sheepish, and handed him a flier. "My bad. It's got a list of everything you need right there. Basically just turn in ten photos, one of which has to be a self-portrait. The rest are up to you. Send it all to the email address on the flier, or bring it to our first meeting. No pressure, though. Most freshmen don't make it on-staff their first year."

Peter looked up, more embarrassed than angry. "I'm a, uh, junior actually."

"Oh…sorry," Ned glanced away. "Maybe you'll have better luck then."

"Right. Thanks. Um…" Peter said, before blurting, "See ya later, alligator." He resisted the urge to hit himself.

"In a while crocodile," Ned replied, smiling good-naturedly.

Peter's lips twisted up into a grin. Okay. That hadn't gone as bad as it could have. Now to find Harry…who was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Jessica.

But there was Alistair Smythe, the occasional third wheel to Peter and Harry's bromance. Sitting alone on a hill just outside of the chaos, the pudgy half-Japanese teen played on his Nintendo DS.

Peter walked up the hill to sit down beside him, saying, "Hey, Al."

"'Sup," Al replied without looking up.

"You sign up for any clubs?" Peter asked.

"No, I just came to the activities fair because I love people," he sarcastically responded.

Peter nodded, realizing what he'd gotten himself into.

After a few moments more, Al said, "Robotics."

Peter's face brightened slightly. "Really? That's pretty sweet. Tell me how it goes."

"Sure," Al agreed. He still hadn't looked up from his DS.

Peter sighed and lay down on the grass. He used a hand to block out the sun, and then rested his head on the other. Silence settled over the two boys. Something nagged at Peter until he couldn't hold it in any longer.

"What do you think of Jessica?" Peter wondered.

"I think she's a human female with brown hair and brown eyes whom most people would identify as attractive," Al replied, deadpan.

Peter turned his head to stare at him. Al finally looked up from his game, smirking.

"Dude, you are so easy to screw with," Al chuckled.

"Thank you. I appreciate that," Peter grumbled back.

"You really need to work on your social skills, man," the pudgy boy added.

Coming from Alistair Smythe of all people. Peter resisted the urge to scream at him.

"Overwatch this weekend?" he asked.

"Actually, I'd prefer to play Call of Duty. Of course we'll play Overwatch," Al muttered, returning to his game.

And that was Alistair Smythe. Peter didn't know how he and Harry had hung around the boy for so long, but they couldn't shake him now. Peter didn't want to. At least being friends with Alistair was better than being alone.

…

The rest of the school day blew by without additional conflict. In fact, he didn't even encounter Harry again. Still, when Peter got home he felt drained, like he could collapse on the spot. Unlocking the door to their fifth floor apartment, he had to consciously make the effort to take each step so he wouldn't do just that.

"Peter?" His aunt May—tall, thin, her dark hair just beginning to gray—called from the kitchen.

"Yeah, it's me," Peter replied as he slipped his shoes off by the front door, knowing full well his aunt would scold him for it later. He didn't care. He needed to get every weight he could off his body.

Peter had to pass the kitchen to get to his room. So, he made his way inside it just as his aunt asked, "How was school?"

"Same old, same old," Peter offered. He briefly kissed May on the cheek, before continuing on to his bedroom.

"Ben's working late tonight, so I thought we'd have dinner around 8," May said.

"Sure, yeah," Peter agreed, opening the door to his room.

"Get your homework done before then!" May shouted after him.

Peter didn't respond, instead merely choosing to shut the door. As soon as he reached his bed, he slung off his backpack and collapsed beside it. Every bone in his body felt like it weighed a ton, but he hadn't exercised in weeks. The stairs couldn't have taken that much out of him. What was going on?

And yet this feeling wasn't unusual. It came and went about once a week, usually on one of Peter's bad days, which were beginning to happen more and more often.

Something drove him to reach into his pocket and produce his cell phone. He took a selfie of himself in bed. A gaunt, dark eyed boy with combed over brown hair stared back at him. He looked awful. Not sick, just…sad. This wasn't right.

Peter added a filter. It didn't fix anything. He tried black and white. Interesting, but not the right one. Energy returning to him in the form of anger, he grunted in frustration and deleted the picture. Sitting up, he prepared to take another when he caught sight of a photo on his bookshelf. It was of himself, much younger, around 8 years old, shortly after he'd gone to live with his aunt and uncle. In the picture, he was dressed in a lab coat, and was laughing as he poured something from a flask onto a chubby, nerdy-looking redhead, who had also broken into a fit of giggles.

Peter was on his feet before he knew what he was doing. He wrapped his hands around the photo's frame and stared at it. Rejuvenated, he placed the picture beside his laptop, sat down, and opened the computer.

…

"'Enter: me'? No, that sounds stupid." Peter furiously deleted the phrase from the screen, only to immediately consider it again. It was short, to the point, even a bit funny.

"Screw it," he muttered, typing it back into the email. "She won't care…not that I'll ever know."

Peter sighed and readjusted his position on the desk chair. He looked up at the top of the email—the header:

Dear MJ.

He clicked into his outbox and scrolled through it. Over 500 emails stared back at him, each to the same person, spanning almost 7 years. Not a single one dated since 2014 had a response attached.

"Please," Peter whispered, before transitioning to thought, 'Please reply, MJ. You haven't in almost two years. I need to know you're reading these. I need to know I'm not alone.'

Hoping beyond hope that this was the one, Peter clicked back into his draft of the email, and got to work again.

That's all for chapter one! I hope you enjoyed it!

In case it wasn't clear, this is going to be a slightly darker take on Spider-Man than you might be used to. That's not to say there won't be humor, and plenty of it. This is Spider-Man we're talking about, after all. However, I wanted to take a more realistic approach to the story. As a recent high school graduate, I'm meditating on and analyzing my experiences for the story, so it can be as emotionally honest as possible. This is, in a lot of ways, just as therapeutic for me as it is fun to write.

Just another warning, this will be a slow burn, as evidenced by the fact that Peter hasn't been bitten yet. That won't come till issue 3. After that...well, just wait and see.

Anyway, thanks for stopping by and giving this a read through. I hope you'll drop a review! :)

'Til next time, guys. Excelsior!